Entwined (9 page)

“My slippers are worn out,” said Delphinium. She untucked her feet and showed everyone her pink toes, peeking through the seams.

“Mine, too,” said Hollyhock. She sat with her feet forward, her small green shoes torn. All the girls adjusted positions then, showing their ragged slippers. They laughed and wiggled their toes.

“That means a job well done,” said Azalea. “When you wear out your slippers like that. That's what…what Mother used to say.”

The girls grew quiet. Flora clasped her hands in her lap. Azalea blinked at the ceiling, strings of pearls swooping in arcs above her.

“I miss her,” Flora whispered.

Goldenrod nodded. Bramble pursed her lips and stared at the floor. Clover traced a vein in the marble, just barely touching it with her fingertip.

“When—when I dance,” she said quietly. “When I dance, I—I forget all the—the bad things.”

Eve toyed with her spectacles. “Like Mother not being here,” she said.

“Like mourning,” said Delphinium.

“And the King,” said Bramble quietly.

“I—I only remember the good things. That is the b-best thing about d-dancing.”

“Then come back.”

The low, smooth voice startled them.

“Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea, standing quickly. The girls stood as well, smoothing down their black skirts. Mr. Keeper stood at the entrance, his face a touch sober, his voice steady.

“You cannot dance up there,” he said, quietly. “I can see you are in mourning. But you are welcome to dance here, among the magic. Please. Come and mend your broken hearts here. Come back, every night.”

Azalea felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

T
he next day, the girls brought the worn slippers to lessons in a basket, and after Latin Azalea taught them how to mend the torn seams. It took a stronger needle and thimbles, and Azalea only managed a mediocre job of repairing the dainty things. Even the twins, who had clever hands, took several hours before they had stitched the slippers properly. Everyone became frustrated at the task, and Hollyhock, brash and unthinking at eight years old, threw her thimble across the table.

Azalea understood their impatience, though it disheartened her. They couldn't request the services of their shoemaker, even in secret. Mr. Pudding was in charge of the accounts while the King was gone, and they couldn't stir up any suspicion. Azalea tried to be cheerful.

“I think we may be able to make them last two or three weeks,” she said, bundling the last pair of slippers
into the basket. “If we back them with a sturdier fabric, and are careful. That's plenty of dancing.”

“Oh, only two weeks?” said Flora.

“What if we danced barefoot?” said Hollyhock.

“Why, Hollyhock,” said Azalea raising her eyebrows and turning to the red-headed, freckled girl.

“Where
were
you born?” Bramble and Clover chimed with Azalea, their fingers at their collars in a gesture of shock.

Everyone giggled. That was one of Mother's phrases. Hollyhock ducked her head, beaming sheepishly.

“I know,” she said. “I forgot.”

“I wouldn't want—want Mr. Keeper especially to—to see our ankles again,” said Clover, who busied herself retying the slippers' ribbons into dainty bows. “His eyes seem to catch everything.”

Azalea had to agree with that. It made her chest tickle.

Though they had agonized over the mending, that evening the girls hopped with excitement as Azalea helped them tie on the repaired slippers. Even Lily liked them, grabbing at the bows around the girls' ankles and stuffing them in her mouth. The girls slipped through the passage and into the silver magic, their slippers peeking in bright, colorful glimpses from beneath their black skirt hems.

The pavilion was dark when they arrived, but Mr.
Keeper was there. He smiled when they climbed the steps and bowed deeply, with a “My ladies.” The girls passed by him onto the dance floor, but Azalea stayed back and gave Mr. Keeper a graceful curtsy.

“Thank you,” she said, before joining the girls on the dance floor. When she glanced at the entrance again, Mr. Keeper had vanished.

“Off-putting, how he does that,” said Bramble.

In the middle of the dance floor sat twelve teacups in a ring. In each one stood a candle, flickering merrily.

“The candle dance!” said Azalea. She picked up one of the teacups. The candle sputtered but did not go out. She smiled and placed a teacup on each of the girls' heads.

“We haven't danced this for years,” she said. “Not since Mother took ill. Don't let the teacup fall off. Grace—balance, that's what this dance is about.”

Azalea showed them how to move on their feet without letting the top part of them bounce. The invisible orchestra accommodated them, only playing slow songs, and by the end of the night, even Ivy and Jessamine stepped without losing their candles.

“And two, feet together, and dip. Very good! Sweep a curtsy to your gentleman.”

The girls dipped a curtsy. Their teacups fell off their heads and clattered to the ground. Azalea, laughing, picked them back up, and the candles inside flitted back to life.

“Curtsies next time,” she said.

“Azalea,” said Flora as they set the teacups on the dessert table. “Could you show us the Soul's Curtsy?”

The chattering hushed. Azalea hesitated.

“Go on,” said Bramble, grinning. “They're old enough now.”

Azalea smiled, inhaled, and touched her right foot in front of her. She traced it in a circle behind her, then slowly sank to the left knee. With strained balance, she folded herself up as she disappeared into the poof of her skirts. Her legs twisted like pretzels beneath her. She bowed her head, nearly kissing the floor, and extended her right arm above her, her left tucked behind her back. The girls applauded.

“How beautiful,” said Flora.

“Now
that's
a curtsy,” said Bramble, helping Azalea up.

“But it's not just for anyone,” said Azalea. “It has to be for your husband, or royalty. Like a king.”

Flora giggled. “For you that will be the same thing!”

Azalea smiled again, but this time it was strained, and as Bramble teased the girls into learning the dip, Azalea escaped to the edge of the pavilion. She leaned on the railing and looked miserably over the misty lake.

She hated feeling helpless. It writhed in her stomach, choking her with thoughts of dancing the rest of her life in the arms of a gentleman who pushed her about and
laughed when she stumbled or, worse, didn't even look at her at all. She wondered if she would be able to give the Soul's Curtsy, with all her heart and soul, to anyone, and the thought made her ill.

Around her, the leaves of the rosebush ivies rustled, then curled and entwined through the lattice. Their buds bloomed into fat, silver blossoms, revealing pearls for middles.

“They're…lovely,” said Azalea, after the initial surprise. “Mr. Keeper.”

She turned and there he was, behind her, soundless as midnight. Azalea's heart beat a pace faster.

“You're upset,” he said, in a low, gentle voice. Azalea felt the warmth of a blush creep up her neck.

“No,” said Azalea. “Not.”

“Ah,” he said quietly. “But I can guess what you're thinking. You are thinking, if you were born after one of your sisters, perhaps things would be different for you. Are you not?”

The warmth of the blush dropped, replaced with cold shock.

“Not—quite—I—” Azalea stammered.

Keeper held up his gloved hand.

“I should think,” he said, taking a step closer to her, so close Azalea should have felt his warmth, but did not. “If you were born after your sisters, it would be one of
them faced with such a duty. And, from what I have seen of you, Princess Azalea, you would do anything to keep them from unhappiness. Look.”

Azalea looked over at the dance floor, where Bramble had made the younger girls sit on the floor, while she, Delphinium, and Eve leaped over them. The younger girls squealed uproariously whenever the skirt hems brushed their faces. Bramble was saying, “Don't jump up, Ivy, you great idiot, do you want your head to get knocked off?” Azalea stifled a laugh, and the terrible, helpless feeling eased. A little.

“One day, my lady,” said Mr. Keeper, stepping aside and allowing her to join them, “I should hope I would be fortunate enough to see such a graceful, unearthly curtsy from you again.”

 

The girls were late to breakfast the next morning, and to lessons. When they arrived at the nook, their now-cold porridge sat on the table, and their teacher, Tutor Rhamsden, was there as well. He sat in his usual seat and was, in fact, asleep, leaning on his cane, upright but snoring.

He slept quite a lot. No one ever had the heart to wake him.

“Why is breakfast so early?” Bramble moaned, laying her head on the tablecloth. “Why are lessons so early?”

No one answered, for they all nodded in a doze. Four-year-old Jessamine curled up on her chair and buried her head in Azalea's lap.

That night, however, after a long afternoon of mending the slippers, the girls were wide awake with excitement, passing through the silver forest. Mr. Keeper greeted them at the entrance, bowing them in and disappearing with a faint smile. Azalea was glad—she suddenly felt shy and nervous around him.

The girls discovered twelve delicate lace-and-satin fans waiting for them, and they gasped with how fine they were. Clover, who was good with fans, taught them how to snap it open with a flick of the wrist, how to throw it in the air and catch it, and how to flutter it just above the nose, shyly, demurely. The girls cheered for her.

“I'm only good…because—because I'm shy,” she said, blushing.

They returned through the fireplace to their room with visions of fan tatting rippling through their minds. The next night, they learned new waltz steps, how to flow up and down on the beats. The next night, jigs. And the night after, a morris dance, with silver-and-white satin sticks that had bells attached with ribbons.

No words could describe those warm summer nights, dancing at the pavilion. Euphoric, delightful, brilliant, all would fit. It was what Azalea felt when she saw the girls,
beaming from learning a new step, or how to balance on just their toes, or when Azalea tucked them into bed, their cheeks flushed and smiling.

“Sometimes I wake up,” Flora said one morning, “and I wonder if it's even real.”

“It feels like a dream,” Goldenrod agreed, sleepily.

Mornings came much too early, and after the girls had groggily dressed, they stumbled to breakfast late. They mended slippers over their porridge, or in the afternoons in the cool cellar. The slippers became more tattered each day, and Azalea had to back them with extra fabric from old tablecloths, because the satin frayed so. They couldn't last much longer, Azalea knew, but she would sew her fingers raw to make them do. She had to immerse herself in the silver forest, in the dancing, if only for one more night.

And though she wouldn't dare admit it to anyone, she wanted to see Mr. Keeper again.

He hardly ever spoke to her or any of them, other than to welcome, bow them in, and wish them a good night when they left, but the essence of him lingered. When Azalea spun, spotting her head as her skirts billowed around her, she could
swear
she glimpsed his midnight eyes watching through the lattice, or at the entrance, but when she turned about again, she saw only rosebuds. His sleek movements mesmerized her, and she
wondered how he danced. She wished desperately to see it.

“Poor Mr. Pudding,” said Eve, one night in early August, at the pavilion. They had danced until their slippers had been worn to pieces, and now sat in a circle on the floor, exhausted. When they had come to the pavilion that night, streamers lay on the floor, and they spent the next several hours dancing among ribbons.

“He nearly started crying this morning,” Eve continued, “when we came late and wouldn't eat breakfast, because it was cold.”

“Poo on Mr. Pudding!” said Delphinium, who was often cranky when she was tired. Azalea, on the other hand, helped the girls to their feet, nudging the younger ones awake and scooping a sleeping Lily into her arms.

“We
have
been staying out too late,” she said. “We'll have to be more attentive.” She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket for Lord Bradford's watch, to see the hour. Azalea kept the watch in her pocket every night, checking it from time to time, always taking the girls back before it grew too late. It was easy, however, to forget about the time when the pavilion spun around them. Azalea dug into her skirt pocket a littler harder, and found nothing but a thimble.

“Bramble, have you seen the watch?”

“Me? No.” Bramble yawned.

“Has anyone seen the watch?”

The girls only answered with blinky, sleepy eyes. Anxiety seizing her throat, Azalea paced the dance floor, searching the marble, wondering if it had fallen from her pocket during the ribboned mazurka. She couldn't just lose the watch like that—it wasn't hers!

Azalea turned again, and this time the weighty, dark form of Mr. Keeper stood in the entrance, a silhouette of roguish ease. His hands cupped around an object, holding it close to his nose. Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, as though breathing it in. Azalea caught a glimpse of gold between his long black fingers.

“Mr. Keeper!” said Azalea, relief washing over her. She strode to the entrance. “You found it!”

Mr. Keeper's eyes snapped open, sharply black. Sighting Azalea, the sharpness diminished, and a flicker of a smile appeared. He lowered his hands. The watch, fob, and chain nestled in his gloved palms.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “It had clattered to the edge here. Forgive me.”

Azalea made to pluck it from his hands, but his fingers closed on the watch, and he pulled back.

“Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea.

“Such a fine clock,” he said softly. “It belongs to your gentleman?”

Azalea's breath caught from her throat to her chest,
and her heart thumped in her corset. At the lattice beside them, the leaves rustled in the unfeelable breeze.

“Not…mine,” Azalea stammered. “Please, Mr. Keeper, if I could have it back—”

Mr. Keeper reached out and brought her hand to his. Azalea gasped; the press of his fingers seemed to touch her core. He felt so
solid
. It both thrilled and frightened her. Turning her palm upward, he placed the watch and chain in her shaking hand and curled her fingers over it. His hands lingered upon hers.

Then, in a silky movement, he released her hand and bowed them out, so quickly Azalea couldn't recall even going over the bridge. She clasped the watch in her hand so hard the gold ornament curls imprinted her hand through her glove.

 

Several hours later, when her heartbeat had slowed to its normal pace, and Azalea didn't blush every time she thought of Mr. Keeper's hands on hers, she turned up the lamp on the round table in their room, retrieved a bit of newspaper from under her bed, and sat on a pouf, studying both the watch and the paper.

The Delchastrian war had had two battles in the past month, which worried them all. Between lessons and meals, and now slipper mending and sleep, Azalea read the
Herald
aloud to the girls. Worry etched in their
faces. Afterward Azalea would have them tear and roll old tablecloth fabric for bandages.

This past week, however, the girls had squealed with delight over the paper. Azalea's name was mentioned in Lady Aubrey's gossip column. Lady Aubrey wrote the “Height of Society” news, which, in Eathesbury, usually involved a discussion on why Lady Caversham and Minister Fairweller would be such a fine match. Mother had never approved of Lady Aubrey's column, and Azalea did not either—in theory. She couldn't help but be interested this past week, when she was the subject.